Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall...And Spring: The Duality Of Kim Ki-duk

It’s important to remember that a director on a any large scale artistic project is not only responsible for the quality of the creative vision being realized, but as equally important, being responsible for the wellbeing of the people (and animals) that are working under them. That nothing is worth creating if you find yourself having to harm life in order to do so. It seems so simple, especially when all art is a mere imitation, a facsimile of life, but many creatives must guard themselves from getting lost in the power and intoxication of being the arbiter of the intersection of reality and fantasy. A complex balancing act that has weighed and continues to weigh on many in these privileged positions of artistic power. And none more so than an idiosyncratic and art-house Korean director.

Kim Ki-duk was a very abrasive and combative creator. That’s not necessarily saying he was hard to work with (and he certainly was if some of the accusations labelled against him were true) but in a strictly creative sense, he made his art the way he wanted to make it. Unapologetic in his imagery, themes, tone, and style. He was an auteur with a bit more bite. His methods were questionable, his results were variable, but always distinctly in his vision.

So when Kim’s most arguably recognizable film is a serene, subtle, and symbolic film headed by, as we’ve established, one of the more renegade figures of his respective realm, it comes as somewhat of a shock to the system or at the very least a subversion of the common expectations. Drenched in the ambient sounds of nature, breathtaking landscapes, and a story of faith, patience, and the measures we must take in shaping ourselves for a healthier future to live with our own vicious cycles delivered in an equal parts contemplative, and reflective experience.

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring was in fact directed by the aforementioned Korean cinema maverick Kim Ki-duk whose life was unfortunately cut short in 2020 due to the coronavirus pandemic is a minimalist and ethereal film about an old Buddhist monk and his child apprentice who live on a temple floating in the mountains, the elder teaching his pupil about the ways of nature, life, and how the two intertwine. Each season is a considerable amount of time away from the previous one, being years apart, and following the young man’s changes as a human being over the years of his life.

There are very few lines of dialogue, not many uses of music though it does employ native tones of Buddhist vocals, it is small scale in just about every way you can imagine and does so much with so little. There is Buddhist symbolism from front to back, though as someone not versed in Buddhist teachings I cannot speak on them. A simple understanding that a tenet of Buddhism is treating the world, in particular nature, with consideration and decency. It almost encourages you to think whilst experiencing the cinematic majesty of wide nature shots of water, wildlife, and serenity. The stunning geography and sense of place does as much naturally on its own as Kim's naturalistic and small scale cinematography to capture the modesty of living away from the bustle of modern life.

Rather than focusing on character drama in a melodramatic and contrived manner, this film has higher aspirations and decides to use the young monk and his trek through life as an analog to us and our understanding of what our purpose is to ourselves and our place in the world. It's more about connecting with ourselves than any particular character that is a part of this story. Even without dialogue, Kim Ki-duk is able to provide dimension and perspective to each respective characters in whatever walk of life they may find themselves in. An impressive feat as far as I'm concerned. It speaks to not only Kim's prowess as a director but as a writer as well to write scenarios so convincingly without the need for spoken word.

My interpretations of this work are the importance of patience and preparation when it comes to making big strides forward in our lives. The motif of doors opening is used masterfully to convey the welcoming open arms of familiarity and also uncertainty that the next moments in our story must be reflected upon before we create new ones in an unforgiving and cruel world that awaits us at every turn. The natural order of life can be a really scary place. Growth should be a deeply meditative and organically natural process if it is at all possible within the context of someone's living circumstances, and the sad truth is that it all too often is not.

It’s ultimately a sentimental, slow moving film may not appeal to casual viewers. However I have no doubt that those willing to make the commitment to what this film is and tries to be throughout its 100 minute run time will come out of the experience with a fresher perspective on where their future lies and what that looks like, provided one chooses to take their own time to derive personal meaning from it should you want to go digging for it.

I dare not speak for the departed, nor anyone else that is not myself, having said that, it’s not hard for me to believe that this is the film that Kim Ki-duk would have wanted to be remembered more than any in his life as an artist. Ultimately it’s smarter and more healthier to view any artists complete works as all encompassing rather than boiling his work down to single film. He did have major credits in 33 feature films after all. As we know there was much more to the artistic endeavors of Da Vinci and Van Gogh than self portraits, but there is also a reason they are enduring in their quality to this day.

Amongst the brashness and aggression there was a portion of confessional, introspective, and self-reflection not just in his works but within who he was as well. Concerning his 2000 film The Isle in which there was violent imagery of fish and frogs being mutilated and skinned completely without tricking the audience through artistic sleight of hand, Kim remarked, “We cooked all the fish we used in the film and ate them, expressing our appreciation. I've done a lot of cruelty on animals in my films. And I will have a guilty conscience for the rest of my life.”

Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall…and Spring in many ways feels emblematic of that guilty conscience that Kim himself alluded to after years of reflection and personalization. To find a relatively comfortable middle ground where he could still create in the ways that he wanted to, say the things he wanted to say in the ways only he could say them while still finding a way to be smarter and safer in the ways that he realized his vision. That he could reconcile his transgressive style with respecting the people who brought it to life. Based on the anecdotes and allegations made against him in the years to follow, it’s hard to say whether or not he had learned as he would have wanted to. I can only hope for the sake of his soul that he, more often than not, was able to do so.